


Kiss Me Goodnight, Sargeant Major

by Wizard95



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, had to give him a name guys - i think it fits, i mean i'm not writing them in but we all know they're there... shipping, strictly a period piece so no ghosts for now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27276757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wizard95/pseuds/Wizard95
Summary: The Captain surely is quite oblivious to his own charm if he believes Gilbert could come to forget his face at all.(In which Havers is gone and the Captain's got a new Second-in-command: a young Sargeant that was wounded in action.)
Relationships: The Captain (Ghosts TV 2019)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Easing myself into the writing part of this fandom by giving The Captain a boyfriend (er... in the long run?). Listen, he needs to be happy and here's a soft boy in need of care. Enjoy.
> 
> (Title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9FJWB-39wYw), a song which I absolutely love and recommend you go have a listen if you haven't already - the whole album is a treasure.)

Gilbert smiles softly at the bartender's daughter as she slides into the chair next to his, brings a plate of snacks he didn't order and gives him another one of those once-overs he's been successfully dodging for the last three days.

"Nothing on today's schedule, either?" her sweet mellowy voice inquires, and she props her elbows on the table and cocks her head, a few of her curly red hairs falling prettily down her forehead.

"Afraid not, love," he answers before seeing her avert her eyes and start toying with that candy wrap between her slim fingers - he kicks himself for his careless language, "why, would you rather I was somewhere else?"

She perks up immediately, with a sheepish smile.

"Oh, no! I very much enjoy having you here, Sargeant," she stands up at the call of her name and brings the tray with her, "you make for very amenable company."

He can't help but show her another smile, taking care to keep it polite and short, his eyes returning only her glance and then going back to the refilled glass in front of him.

"I only wish you'd stay for longer," she mumbles under her breath and turns around to get back behind the bar. 

Gilbert lets out a sigh. She's a sweet girl, Margaret, and he doesn't mind her presence at all. He could do without the not-so-subtle flirtation, and especially he could do without it when her old man is lurking near, sending him many a stern stare as if he's ever given her reason to believe her advances (or attempts-of) were reciprocated. 

He can't help but feel a pang of guilt, at that, and his eyes find her mop of curly fire-like hair bouncing in the air as she moves about fixing those pilots a couple of shots.

He downs his own drink and returns his gaze outside. 

She's saved him the table by the window again. It's become a bit of a routine, really, just crossing the street and killing the day by watching people go by about their business. He isn't due to report for two more days but rather dreads the moment he's got to turn up for it.

He dreads the looks, the eyes full of pity and the questions about his time on active duty. _Does it hurt? How did you get it? Did you kill any germans? Wasn't your whole company KIA?_

He winces at the throbbing of his upper leg and takes another gulp of his pint. 

It's ever-strong when he lets the memories in. 

"It's that Captain again," Maggie slides back in her chair, "comes in seven sharp, every Sunday."

Gilbert turns his head towards a lone figure seated on the far-off corner of the bar, the one that's poorly-lit and near the toilets. He vaguely remembers Margaret mentioning something about a Captain before, except she's probably gone on about more than one, and he's not certain which one she's referring to now.

He's not about to ask, either. 

He can't quite keep up with her chipper energy. He's tried, really, to not zone out, but it's a bit difficult in his situation. Flashbacks and pain flog his brain and more often than not he finds himself staring but not looking. Hearing but not listening. He thinks she knows, too, but she's too kind to bring it up. 

"Where is he stationed?" he asks conversationally, as Maggie steals another glance at the back of a very clean-cut looking officer.

"Don't know," she provides, turning back to look at him with sad eyes, "doesn't talk much. At all, doesn't talk at all. Just sits there looking sulky."

Gilbert provides a week smile and Maggie brings a hand to her mouth, scandalized.

"I'm very sorry," she coos, "I know nothing of it, it must be really horrible to have your frie- I mean, that is, to be on the front and- I shouldn't have said that, it was very insensitive of me."

Gilbert takes pity and leans over to place a hand on her forearm.

"It's alright, Maggie," he smiles reassuringly and leans back in his chair to steal another look at that Captain with empathy. He's got a knick for spotting heartbroken soldiers: silent, dazed eyes, unmoving and detached. 

He thinks the man ticks at least three of those, seeing as his lean figure and nape are the only thing he can get a clear view of from where he's sitting.

"We're all a bit done with the war..." Gilbert mumbles with a cracked voice, a resigned sigh and another reassuring smile meant at Maggie, who's surveying his face nervously. 

The doorbell rings again and she returns to serving tables. Gilbert stays in the corner for a bit longer until the sun's gone down completely and the cold starts to get a bit too much on his sensitive knee. Margaret is behind the bar and smiles at seeing him approach, like a ray of warm light in an already darkened evening.

He will miss her.

"I'll fetch the bill," she says quickly as she juggles with five empty cups on her hands and turns around to refill them, "just a moment."

"In you own time, Maggie, don't trip over yourself," he answers quietly, fishing his change out of his pocket as she walks back to her customers. The silent Captain seems to perk up at the sound of his voice - or maybe startle at the brush of Gilbert's arm on his elbow - and he lets out a strangled gasp as if awoken from a daydream.

Which, well. Which was probably the case.

The lightning is still dim but he gets a closer look at his face as the middle-aged man clears his throat and sits up only a little bit more straight. His pint is still full and he slightly turns his head towards Gilbert's figure, as if acknowledging his presence, but not really looking.

Gilbert refrains from giving a comforting pat on the man's back. He too comes here mostly to escape from the four walls of his rented room and doesn't nearly drink as much as the time he spends just occupying space.

He's too engrossed in this nameless stranger to notice the heavily drunk RAF pilot slightly sliding off his seat and falling right against him, and he supports the man's weight much as he can, before his friends on the other side break out into laughter and bring him back straight with a yank of his tie.

"Oi, steady on mate!" one of them cackles.

"Watch out you yuck! There's someone behind you!"

"S'alright," Gilbert provides, giving _this_ happy champ a pat on the shoulder instead, as he tries to hide the wince of pain born from heavily stepping on his bad leg.

"Ye load of lightweights!" a strong Scottish accent breaks through, and Gilbert takes a step back when drunk-RAF-happy-go-lucky starts making broad arm gestures to back up his argument - and he collides against someone too.

The pointed clearing of a throat suddenly reminds him of that handsome grey-haired officer behind, and Gilbert quickly turns around.

"Apologies, sir," he blurts out with a bit of a strangled voice as he takes a step back from the bar and loses something to lean on. The next slight wince doesn't escape the Captain's keen eyes, though, and he hops off his stool in realization. 

"Not at all, Sargeant," he reaches forward when Gilbert sways but doesn't touch him, "please," he gestures to the empty stool with urgency in his voice and Gilbert's eyes catch a couple of blue orbs looking intently at him, with a frown in between.

"Oh, I'm fine, sir," he shakes his head but takes a step towards the bar nonetheless, just stands a bit further from those navy-blue uniforms, "I was taking my leave anyway."

He sends a kind smile to the officer and sees him perk up at it, clearing up his throat again.

"I see," there's a tug of the man's lips and he's looking into his eyes again, silently, almost awkwardly. Gilbert braces against the bar and shoves his hand forward.

"Gilbert Miller, sir," he says, and the Captain shakes his hand firmly, "thank you, though."

"Of course, Sargeant," the man shows him a more genuine smile, this time, and there are soft crinkles around his eyes now which Gilbert can't help but stare a little bit too intently at before the Captain finally lets go of his hand, "Captain Bradford, at your service."

Gilbert nods in acknowledgement, ignoring the way the tips of his fingers tingle where the Captain's hand brushed his skin or the concerned little looks the man keeps sending him as he waits for Maggie to be done with that lot of noisy regulars at the other end. 

He might just leave the money and go. Or pay for it tomorrow.

"I say, are you quite sure you're well?" the Captain suddenly asks after a few moments of silence, he looks about to give his seat again and frowns at the way he keeps his left foot slightly hovering on the floor.

"I'm used to it," he explains, showing the concerned officer the same polite smile he puts on when people get too curious about it, get a little bit too personal in their questions, already dreading the conversation. Except, he finds he wouldn't mind that much, telling this particular fellow about it. 

Perhaps inviting him back to his table, get him a drink and strike up a proper conversation, come up with questions of his own instead which the Captain would no doubt politely answer in his slightly-posh accent, and he would go on about it as Gilbert surveyed every inch of his handsome face, from that slick hair to those blue eyes and down till his neat moustache - but the Captain doesn't even ask.

He just looks at him a bit longer before clearing his throat again - definitely a habit - and turning towards the bar, resuming his previous position and finally taking a gulp or two of his pint.

"Sorry, Gilbert," Maggie comes back in quite a rush, brushing her hands on her apron and handing him the bill, "bit of a busy night."

"It's fine, love," he gives her a generous tip, as always, and turns around to take his leave, thinking twice of his manners and sending the Captain a last look, "goodnight, sir."

The man does a poor job of pretending he wasn't paying attention and turns around to nod at him.

"Sargeant."

But he doesn't meet his eyes again, and Gilbert feels a bit like a helpless idiot. He leaves the noisy pub behind and crosses the street to the hotel, the chilly air embracing him in those steps cranking up the pain to a now permanent scowl. He waves to the clerk and makes a beeline for the lift. He's quite out of breath by the time he reaches it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! You've made my day.  
> This chapter is especially dedicated to my pal Christina, who is such a lovely person and also the reason why I fell into this Six-Idiots-rabbit-hole in the first place. This fic will always be a bit your fault (: love you my dude.

The pain is almost unbearable in the mornings, his muscles stiff from lying down immobile and his back quite unaccustomed to the soft fabric and marshmellow-y feeling of the mattress. There hasn't been a day so far he hasn't woken up to misery, unwavering pain only gone after two or three cups of black coffee.

But he gets to mourn his loss of ability, here, alone in a spacious room and in no need to meet any deadlines or showing up for a day's work. He won't be able to keep it up once he's stationed - the last thing he needs is to be rendered completely useless, as if a desk post isn't quite dreadful already.

Now, he knows it's important work, but it's not _his_ kind of work.

"Well, it is now," he grunts in response to his own thoughts, placing his razor under the tap and going on about his early morning routine of shaving - even though he's got little stubble to show - and dressing up. He puts on the full ensemble, today, medals and all. Boots tightly tied and shirt neatly tucked into his pants. 

He splashes on a bit of cologne, as well, for the sake of making a good impression. So that maybe the strong scent will derail his superior's attention from his pale complexion, from the ever-so-dark skin around his eyes and possibly, only if he's lucky, make him overlook his limping.

It's become a dreadful task, getting off his sleeping clothes and into his uniform; it's a pity he really can't go to sleep on his day clothes and avoid the whole affair. Avoid the pain those painkillers can't fully dull.

He looks himself in the mirror one last time before heading down to the lobby to check out, bag slung over his shoulder instead of asking for it to be brought down - because he's stubborn and because it makes him feel in control.

"It's been a pleasure having you with us, sir," the clerk bids him goodbye with a sincere smile as he walks past and Gilbert steps outside into the sunny warm day after thanking him in return. 

With six long strides, he makes it over the street and is insistently knocking on the glass door of the pub. 

Nobody's in.

"Shit," he mumbles under his breath, leaning closer to have a look inside to find only empty tables. He checks the time on his wristwatch - much too late for comfort. 

So he leaves a note, against his own wishes, and definitely doesn't imagine Margaret shedding a tear or two at the sight of it. Just a bunch of words scribbled down on a paper instead of a warm hug - a very deserving one at that.

He slides it under the door and gets on his way without thinking twice of it. 

When he gets to the rendezvous point, there's already someone waiting for him. A bloke much too tall leaning against the jeep and enjoying a smoke, who only stands at attention and quickly discards his cigarette once he spots him approaching quite directly from the opposite sidewalk.

He's got his bad leg to explain his tardiness, but he feels it's quite unnecessary to make excuses to someone of a lower rank. 

"Are you my lift?" he asks, and the young man stands straight and makes a salute.

"Private Johnson! Good morning to you, Sargeant, sir."

"At ease," he nods in return and goes round the car to get in on the passenger's seat, "sorry to have kept you waiting."

"You didn't, sir," Johnson shakes his head as the engine roars into life, "in any case, I enjoyed the distraction."

The Private sends a friendly smile his way and starts driving.

"It's not every day I'm sent over to the city, work can get a bit monotonous, you see."

Gilbert makes a humming noise to show his agreement. He thought as much. He also expected someone of higher rank to pick him up, so he's glad he's got a chatty Private instead, it gives him plenty opportunity to disengage in conversation and bite his lip at the annoying stiffness of his wounded leg that has become a faithful companion at this time of day.

"One gets bored of all the picking up of phones and perusing of maps and inventories," Johnson goes on as they're well into the countryside now, and the stretching of greenery to both sides and the clear sky above make Gilbert shift uneasily in his seat, " _someone_ has to do it, of course, it's an essential task."

"That it is," Gilbert cuts him off, distracted, keeping his eyes on the sky and sounding a little bit too stern. 

"Yes, of course, forgive my carelessness, sir - I - it's just, it must be quite a downstep from your duties at the front, no doubt?"

_Ugh, not this. Not this early._

"No doubt," he provides deadpan, cutting the conversation short before it can develop into something else. Silence settles in quite quickly, Johnson looking like he's mentally kicking himself for being so imprudent.

And Gilbert lets him, for a little bit. But he isn't about to let his crankiness speak for him, he's always been a good-natured lad - or used to be, really, _before_ \- so he turns back to him with an easy-going pat on the shoulder.

"You can stop calling me 'sir', you look no older than myself."

He can see Johnson's lips curve into a smile but his eyes never leave the road ahead and his hands don't lift off the steering wheel. He gives a nod.

"Jolly good!"

Gilbert can't help but let out a snort at that, and it doesn't go over the Private's head.

"It's just something our Captain says," he explains, and this time he does send Gilbert a fond smile, "jolly good," he repeats, with that gentle expression still tugging at his lips. 

Gilbert glances at him with a smile of his own, relishing in the way he seems to happily think back to his superior, not a common sight in the ranks and definitely not among soldiers who've seen action. It gets tough, after a while, when your friends get blown to pieces and in the end so do your CO's. Sooner or later they do. Barely getting to know the replacements' names before they get it too, a stray bullet or the full unlucky blast of a carefully aimed bombshell. And you get quite ill-humoured, after a while, seeing too many too new faces.

He supposes there's none of that here, in this far corner of the Surrey fields. What with the permanent staff, no other threat than perhaps a stray bomber or two - he looks back up to the sky at the thought but all his eyes meet is sky-blue.

He's glad at least someone in the army's got it easy.

"There it is, Button House," Johnson announces as the building comes into view, growing bigger by the second, "pretty nice place. Got a lake if you fancy a swim, Sargeant."

Johnson sends him a playful smile that Gilbert brushes off as mere camaraderie - which is all it is, probably. He's a handsome fellow, but he's always gone for older, stronger men anyway.

"In this chilly weather? I don't think so."

There's another jeep parked up by the entrance, but Johnson drives past it to stop right in front of that fountain and kills the engine. Gilbert makes a move to retrieve his bag from the back, but his companion beats him to it.

"Let me, sir."

He doesn't object, mainly because it's still not midday and the painkillers haven't yet kicked into action and that's already quite a step to get down on the ground. 

He does it without so much as a grunt to account for his pain, so he thinks it a success. Following Johnson inside is a much easier task. He leads him through the living room on their left and straight into a massive wooden staircase. It's all Gilbert can do not to let out a curse.

The young Private sends him an apologetic look but doesn't comment on it. He starts ranting on about their excellent resident cook to fill in the silence.

"He makes a cracking soufflé. Best part of my day."

"Something to look forward to," Gilbert smiles, a bit out of breath as they reach the second floor.

Johnson purses his lips.

"I'm sorry to inform you your office is on the second floor as well, sir," he says, turning back to send the staircase a frown.

"Private, I'm not an invalid," he intends it as a light-hearted comment but it comes out as a bit of a grunt.

"Of course not, Sargeant," Johnson stumbles over his words and his nervous pace gets just a bit quicker until he reaches one of the doors at the end of the corridor. "Captain Bradford is waiting for you, sir." 

Gilbert catches up with him and fights the urge to lean against the wall. 

"You're not dropping the formality, are you?" 

Johnson gives him a sheepish smile, and he knocks on the door three times. 

"Come!" 

And the young Private swings the door open and stands aside to let him through first. Gilbert takes a deep breath and straightens up before striding in. 

His Captain is sitting behind a desk, typing intently on a typewriter, and barely looks up. But he doesn't need to look up for Gilbert to recognize him at all. The name Bradford already sounded recently familiar, though his dull mind couldn't quite recall where he'd heard it before - the middle-aged man now does a double-take at him and Gilbert realizes two things: that he hasn't yet spoken a word and that Johnson's closed the door behind him and stayed outside. 

"Sargeant Miller, at your service, sir," he blurts out, giving a salute and feeling self-conscious, his own words sounding a bit like an echo from that Sunday night. 

The Captain sloppily stumbles up on his feet, making the chair rattle against the floorboards, and he quickly looks him up and down with what one could call speechless surprise. 

"Ah - yes! My new Second-in-command!" he exclaims, with a purse of his lips and that gentle squint of his eyes that bring out his crinkles.

_What are the chances_ , Gilbert thinks as he stands straight. 

"Oh, at ease, at ease, Sargeant," Captain Bradford finally makes his way around the desk to meet him properly, and Gilbert doesn't miss the subtle look he sends his leg, "I believe we've met?" 

Gilbert turns ever so slightly to face him and smiles, thinking it sounded too much like a question, and that the Captain surely is quite oblivious to his own charm if he believes Gilbert could come to forget his face at all. 

He wraps his left hand around the one offered and shakes the Captain's for the second time that week. 

"We have, sir, it's a pleasure to be working with you." 

"Yes, well. It's nice to have a new face around," the man nods, with an unwavering strong grip and deep blue eyes darting over the Sargeant's eyes and hair almost inadvertently, "though I'm afraid you won't find the thrill of battle inside our confined offices." 

"I think I've had my fair share already, sir," Gilbert lies.

Well, he _has_. Unfortunately so. But that doesn't mean he couldn't have been sent somewhere else, somewhere more lively. Somewhere he could really still be quite involved in the fighting, even if it meant training new recruits. _Anything_ but paperwork.

"Hm," the man clears his throat like he did that night at the pub and his eyes dart again to Gilbert's lower body, "yes. Of course."

Captain Bradford stands back quite abruptly, realising he's still got a hold of the Sargeant's hand, and finally puts an end to that handshake and turns around to make himself busy with a tray in the corner. 

_God, he's twitchy._

"Do take a seat, Miller," he says, sounding more authoritative than before, and Gilbert's stomach feels jittery. 

He does as told. 

"A cup of tea?" 

"Yes, please," he answers as the Captain turns his head around to look at him with those expectant gentle eyes. He doesn't even _like_ tea. He's grown too accustomed to the raw taste of coffee, not even hot, just hurried gulps of lukewarm water shared among the group. 

"I trust your stay in town was satisfactory?"

"Yes, sir," Gilbert takes in his surroundings, files and binders everywhere, leaflets and propaganda pinned all over the wall opposite him.

"Two sugars?" 

"No sugar," he snaps his had back in the Captain's direction and he's already holding the steaming cup of tea towards him; which Gilbert slightly leans in to take.

"I bet you got a very much deserved rest," Captain Bradford sends him a smile as he sits back down on his place behind the desk with a cup of his own, "I _hope_ you did, that is." Gilbert watches rather entranced as he tips it towards his lips and does something that looks like a pout to prevent his very neat moustache from getting too messy. 

_Staring. You're staring. Stop the staring._

"Frankly, sir, couldn't wait to be out of that fancy room," he smiles and takes another glance around to back up his statement and just to have somewhere else to look, "this is much more comfortable. It all got a bit dense after a day or two, waking up smelling those bedsheet scents and stuffing my mouth at lunchtime. Felt a bit out of place, really."

_Felt inappropriate. Felt guilty when I know for a fact there are thousands of soldiers out there making do with stale bread and tinned beef soup. God I hate that soup._

He lets out an awkward laugh, realising he's rambling on about something that couldn't be more trivial and looks back to the Captain to see him staring intently, cocked head and furrowed brow. 

Gilbert wraps his fingers around the cup on his lap a little bit too hard and swallows down awkwardly under his gaze.

"Months of rations probably ruined my palate," he adds with another laugh, mostly to make up for his superior's crushing silence. _God, you've blown it. Shut up! What are you doing?! Go and tell him about your throwing up all over the bathroom sink after that dinner, why don't you._

"Ah, that's a pity!" the Captain perks up in his seat, as if snapping out of his own thoughts, "Michael does remarkable things with potatoes and butter."

Gilbert gulps some more tea and nods.

"So I've heard."

And then that awkward silence returns for a few moments before the Captain stands up to retrieve both empty cups back onto that tray.

"Right, let's get you settled next door, shall we?"

There's no-one in the corridor, Johnson long gone and voices sounding much too distant to be coming from any place nearby. The Captain walks over to the next office down the corridor and swings the door open to reveal a similar space to the one before, except there are less papers pinned to the walls and the desk is a bit smaller. 

"You shall report to your duties every day at seven-hundred hours, all mail marked urgent you can pass onto me. I expect you will manage just fine otherwise. We're mostly taking care of forwarding supply requests and double-checking casualty lists these days."

The Captain walks towards the closed window and draws the curtains open even further to let the light in. 

"These days, sir?"

"What?"

"It's just - I thought this was a strictly bureaucratic post, sir."

"No, _yes_ ," the Captain brings his arms behind his back and seems to rock lightly on his heels, shoulders suddenly looking much too tense, "yes, it is."

"Not that I'm unfit for any other necessary task-"

"No, no, you're quite well fit," the man cuts him off with a shake of his head, and instantly adds with a nervous air: "for any job, I'm sure. That's all I'll be requiring of you, for now, I'm afraid. _We'll_ be requiring. Which reminds me, it's high time for some proper introductions, don't you think? Yes."

And with another short nod - Gilbert thinks less directed at him and mostly for the Captain to reassure himself of something that he doesn't quite place his finger on - his superior walks back outside.

_Definitely twitchy_ , Gilbert smiles, as he follows his new Captain closely from behind along the narrow corridor and absolutely does _not_ take the opportunity to admire his lean figure. Or his perfectly-cut hair growing greyer from the sides, or his immaculate uniform and confident demeanour. He looks nothing like the man from the pub - but then again, Gilbert understands better than anyone that melancholic side isn't easily let on. 

Bradford's Commanding Officer, here, not some poor broken-hearted man drinking away his pain in a dark corner. 

Which, well. He may not even have been doing that, Gilbert considers. His eyes land on the Captain's shoulders again, looking stiff, and even though he doesn't get a clear view of his face from behind, he's pretty sure there's another of those frowns on the man's face, brought on by the permanent stress of managing a whole Intelligence regiment on his own. 

His Captain needs a wind-down, and it's all Gilbert can do to shake off the very inappropriate and colourful offers that spring to mind at the thought.

They're the kind that'd get him court-martialled before he could so much as say _nancy boy_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Projecting my unrelenting thirsty thoughts for Ben Willbond in a military uniform onto a fanfic character? You bet!  
> So, a couple of obvious things that I will still take the time to clarify:  
> 1) Operation William is done and it's only the Cap that's aware of any secret past or future business anyway, with Havers gone.  
> 2) This one may not be too obvious but I'm not even sure what I've depicted as paperwork even WAS real paperwork, anything I could find on Special Operations and Intelligence was way too fancy for what I'm planning here, so let's make do (:
> 
> And one more important thing: I need your thoughts on E-rated chapters. Yes or no?

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is very much appreciated ♥ (also, come talk to me on tumblr @ smuggsy).


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